


The Dew of Little Things

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 13:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6612466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He shouldn’t have done it.  John knows this.  It’s was a horrible infringement on Sherlock’s privacy.  But Sherlock had been ‘borrowing’ his laptop for years, and it was just a peek, John had told himself.  If Sherlock hadn’t wanted him to read his unpublished blog posts, he wouldn’t have raced out of the flat, and off to Barts without shutting down and locking his laptop first.</p><p>John had justified this wrong every way he could conjure, and in the end there is only sick, twisting regret…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://sussexbound.tumblr.com/post/143068971696/heurtebizzz-sussexbound-bobenlugares) on tumblr.

_For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?_

_Seek him always with hours to live._

_For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness._

_And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures._

_For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed._

 

_\--“The Prophet”: Kahlil Gibran_

* * *

 

He shouldn’t have done it.  John knows this.  It’s was a horrible infringement on Sherlock’s privacy.  But Sherlock had been ‘borrowing’ his laptop for years, and it was just a peek, John had told himself.  If Sherlock hadn’t wanted him to read his unpublished blog posts, he wouldn’t have raced out of the flat, and off to Barts without shutting down and locking his laptop first.

John had justified this wrong every way he could conjure, and in the end there is only sick, twisting regret…

 

* * *

_03/11/14_

 

**_The Invisible Clubber_ **

 

_SMILING.CAN’T STOP SMILING. LIFE SO HAPPY.LOVE.LOVE LIFE.BEAT GETTING FASTER.CAN’T STOP MOVING.NOW JUST HARMONY.NO BEAT.MELODY.STOP MOVING.SMILE TO THE SKY.ALL STANDING STILL.BEAUTIFUL.NEVER BEEN SUCH HARMONY IN ALL HISTORY.WANT OT KISS EVERYONE.THEY WANT TO KISS ME.BREATHE IN.BREATHE OUT………._

_MIAMI:  Wonderful and horrible.  It was easy to get lost there, to disappear.  A wall and crush of faceless bodies.  A little pill to be swallowed, and then bliss.  I wanted them to touch me.  What that’s like, to want to be touched—it’s wonderful, and terrifying all at once!  It’s strange to want it, to forget you don’t deserve it.  To forget for a few blissful minutes that you hate it, that your traitorous brain rejects it!_

_But it’s mostly wonderful —your head swimming, softened, open._

_It’s only like that now and again.  only every so once and awhile.  That perfect high, and I’m always chasing it, never quite finding it, and there’s no balance, all or nothing._

_Why is it so hard?  Why am I not allowed to just exist there?  Coming back to earth is…_

_Unbearable._

_This is unbearable!!!_

_I used to wonder if I’d got it all wrong in the past.  If the high—the high was a fair facsimile, that that was what it was like to be in love!_

_But no.  Because love isn’t like that at all._

_Love is pain, and weakness, and loss.  Love is…  Love is THIS.  This thing that is slowing killing me, and I want it to stop, but I don’t, and I’m drowning.  And I promised.  I promised myself I wouldn’t.  Not this.  Never again, because I’m not fit for it, and yet…_

_Sometimes I wonder what it might be like to try without that high.  Just a kiss, a touch, a fleeting little thing…_

_A brush of his hand against mine used to set my skin alight for hours, and I had to flee, because it was too much (TOO MUCH), and I know it’s not him, it’s me.  I’m too much, or not enough, and I want him, want him (WANT HIM), but I can’t bear even his breath too close to my neck._

_People don’t want that.  It’s all or nothing.  I’m not enough.  I crack, and break so easily.  I’m not fit for that.  It burns, it pricks, it races like fire over my skin, through my nerves, flooding my brain with stimulus, reducing me to a trembling fool, and they leave, they always leave.  No one wants that.  No one will ever want that._

_And he—he…  I’m not what he likes, or if I am, I’m not worth the risk, and it’s not his fault.  I’m not worth it.  I know I’m not, and he should be happy.  I owe him that at least—after everything…_

_So, here I am.  Invisible again.  Perhaps it is for the best._

 

* * *

 

The entry is dated: 03/11/14.  The day Sherlock rose from the dead just to interrupt his proposal. 

 John’s head is buzzing, his fingers cold.It’s mild shock, and the twist in his gut feels like grief, but he can’t stop reading.He needs to stop, but he can’t.


	2. Chapter 2

_04/11/14_

 

**_Sebastian’s Story_ **

 

_Sometimes I wonder what it’ll be like to die.I’ll find myself drifting off, staring at something, anything and I’ll stop blinking.I feel my whole body slowing down…My heartbeat…Everything…And I wonder how long it’ll be before I stop._

_To just stop.  How perfect.  So easy.  Just a moment, a split second, and you stop.  Sometimes I want to stop, but then I remember him, and the way his voice sounded saying my name, and the way his fingers felt on my pulse, and the paleness of his skin, as he collapsed in shock, and I know I can’t.  It’s not as easy as just stopping.  There’s always a price.  He deserves better.  I owe him that at least—to keep on going, even if he doesn’t want me anymore._

_I don’t deserve it._

_I don’t deserve him._

_But, I want…  Oh, how I want!!!_

_I should have been smarter this time.  I thought it was different.  He’s a better man than Seb ever was.  And I’m different, now.  But perhaps not enough.  Mycroft is right.  It is better not to try._

_I wanted to give it one more chance (Why do I always?)._

_This was meant to be about Seb.  I don’t want to talk about him anymore.  That’s done and should never have begun.  What was it after all?  Me imagining something that was never there?  It was an accident with his dog, and he never would have even spoken to me otherwise.  And then I was clever, and useful, and there were the drugs.  And in the end I broke.  I always break (why am I so broken?).  And I couldn’t be what he liked, what he needed, and they all hated me.  HATED me.  And why not…?_

_And now he hates me too.  And why not…?_

_Stopping would be so easy._

_But the other night his body was on mine, his breath on my face, and his fingers around my throat, and there were tears in his eyes, and he hated me, yes, but maybe…_

_I can’t stop and leave him like that.  He looked so tired—so old.  I did that.  I stopped, and I did that.  Continuing is getting harder every year, but he…  I can’t—I can’t do that to him again.  I won’t._

_Tonight they almost stopped him._

_Fire exposes our priorities._

_I’ve never had any doubt, not from the moment he limped into that lab at Barts, but last night I knew that I would stop if he stopped.  For the first time, I realised._

_Can you feel someone’s body in your body?  Sometimes I thought—when I was high, a few times, it felt like maybe everything was connected somehow, and last night…  It felt like his atoms were my atoms, and his breath was my breath, and I couldn’t breathe at the though of him stopping, and I wanted to stop too, because there wasn’t me without him, and then I knew.  I knew what I’d done to him these last two years, and I knew—there’s no going back._

_If ever we were something, I killed it (don’t I always?)._

_I need to give him his life back.  I need to let him live._

 

* * *

 

John can’t breathe.  It’s been months, over two years, since Sherlock wrote this, but he’s not deleted it.  It’s still here.  He had been reading it again.  He must have been, or why would it be open on his laptop.  He never uses his blog anymore…

John’s only been home two days.  Two days, and now this!

He couldn’t go back to the flat after everything, he couldn’t face it.  And there was the little matter of his care.  He can barely hobble about to get to the loo, or get himself a little bite to eat.  He couldn’t have managed on his own.  It’s galling, but in some ways it’s been welcome, too.  This flat does still feel like home. 

Did…

He stares down at the pale light of the screen in front of him and doesn’t know what to do.

There are more unpublished posts, but he doesn’t dare read any more.  Instinct is to bolt, but he can’t get down the steps on his own, and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson are out. 

Sherlock will know.  He will know John read this.  Somehow he always knows ( _it felt like his atoms were my atoms_ ).

Sherlock will know…


	3. Chapter 3

**Where are you?**

 

_At Barts.I told you._

 

** Come home—now. **

 

_Why?What’s wrong?_

 

** You left your laptop open. **

** Your blog. **

 

** Sherlock… **

 

** Come home. **

 

** Sherlock? **

 

** Please. **

 

_You read it?_

 

** Yeah. **

 

_Why?_

 

** I don’t know.  **

** It was just there, and I did. **

 

_I’m sorry._

 

** What?Why? **

 

_I’ll arrange something.I_

_could probably have a_

_temporary carer go to_

_your flat._

 

** What are you talking about? **

** Wait—are you kicking me out? **

 

** Sherlock? **

 

** Okay—I probably deserve that.It **

** was a huge breach of trust. **

** I get that.I know better.I’m sorry.  **

 

** Listen, I want this—actually, I need  **

** this to work, this time.Can we at least  **

** talk about it? **

 

** Christ.I’m sorry. **

 

** Sherlock? **

 

** Sherlock, you can’t just  **

** ignore me! **

 

** Will you at least let me  **

** know where you are and  **

** that you’re okay?!!!It’s been hours! **

 

_I’m in Vauxhall.I’m fine._

 

** What are you doing in Vauxhall? **

 

** Sherlock? **

 

** Please stop ignoring me!! **

 

_I’m reminding myself._

 

** Of what? **

 

_What I am._

 

** And what’s that? **

 

_Best not to do this,_

_don’t you think?_

 

** Do what? **

 

_Pretend we both don’t_

_know what this means._

 

** I don’t, Sherlock.I don’t know  **

** what this means.I don’t know at all. **

** I know what I  ** hope ** it means. **

 

_And what’s that?_

 

** That I’ve been an idiot.That maybe we’ve both been idiots. **

 

_I don’t understand._

 

** I know you don’t.That’s why  **

** I need you to come home. **

 

_I can’t._

 

** Why? **

 

_Because I’m not ready._

_I’m not ready for it all to_

_be over._

 

** Why does this mean it has to  **

** be over?Why can’t it maybe be  **

** a beginning? **

 

_What?_

 

** You said I didn’t think you were  **

** worth the risk.It’s a bigger risk  **

** when we’re apart, don’t you think? **

 

_I can’t be what you need._

_And I can’t—I can’t do this_

_and then have it all come_

_tumbling down._

 

** What is it you think I need? **

 

_You need connection, and_

_affection.Proper affection._

_You know what I’m talking_

_about._

 

** Nope. **

 

_Girlfriends.Boyfriends._

_People you like.People_

_you don’t like.Sex._

_It’s what people do._

 

** And you don’t? **

 

_Not successfully, no._

 

** Have you tried? **

 

_You said you read it all_.

 

** I read the first two.Seb? **

** Sebastian Wilkes? **

** Tell me you weren’t talking about that arse?! **

 

_I’m not always perfectly_

_adept at judging character._

_I’ve gotten better—I hope._

 

** So you were—together? **

 

_I don’t know what we were._

 

** Sex? **

 

_He wanted it.I didn’t._

 

** So you don’t do that? **

 

_No._

 

** Okay. **

 

_But, maybe I wish I did._

 

** Why? **

 

_It seems like perhaps it_

_might be nice._

 

** You said it was overwhelming. **

 

_Yes._

 

** What did you mean? **

 

_Never mind._

 

** You don’t want to tell me? **

 

_Why are we talking about_

_this?_

 

** We don’t have to.Sorry. **

 

** Sherlock—just don’t kick me out, okay. **

 

_I couldn’t.It’s your home._

 

** Yours too.You’re my home. **

** I mean it.So, come home, okay.  **

 

** I know why you’re in Vauxhall,  **

** Sherlock.It doesn’t have to be  **

** that way.Just come home. **

 

_I want to…_

 

** Come on, then. **

 

_What did you mean?_

 

** Hmm? **

 

_What did you mean,_

_I’m ‘your home’?_

 

** That wherever you are is where  **

** I want to be too.That when you’re  **

** with me it’s the only time I feel like  **

** maybe, just maybe, I can do this,  **

** I can keep going.That when we’re  **

** together everything feels easier,  **

** everything feels right. **

 

_oh..._

 

_John?_

 

** Yeah. **

 

_You’re my home, too._

 

** Really? **

 

_Of course.Do you_

_really not know?_

 

** I hoped. **

 

_Did you?_

 

** Yeah.Since that first year. **


	4. Chapter 4

The sound of the key turning in the lock comes as a surprise.And then there is momentary silence.John waits—and waits…

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s steps on the stair, two at a time, flying up until he’s there, standing in the doorway, skin slightly flushed, pupils blown wide, hands trembling.

John scowls from where he’s seated at the desk.  “What did you take?”

“Nothing.”

“Sherlock…”

“Nothing.”

“You’re trembling.”

Sherlock looks down at his hands.  Stuffs them swiftly into the pockets of his coat.

“You okay?”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know.  Are we?”

Sherlock just blinks.

John sighs.  “Come here, okay.”

Sherlock doesn’t move.

“Come here.”

There must be something about John’s tone, because Sherlock strides forward, wordlessly, and stops just in front of the desk chair where John is seated, injured leg outstretched, the other tucked beneath.  He looks Sherlock up and down.  He’s good at hiding it when he’s taken something, but this doesn’t look like that.  This is something else.

“You’re clean?  Honestly, clean?  Because I don’t want to have this conversation right now, if you’re not.”

Sherlock nods.

“You promise.”

Sherlock nods again.

“I’m sorry I read those,”  John jerks his head toward the open laptop.  “It was private, and I had no right.”  Sherlock just stares, and so John takes a deep breath, let’s it out, continues.  “I don’t know where to start.  I don’t know what all that means, Sherlock.  I didn’t—you’ve been different.  You’ve been different for awhile, and I’ve—I’ve been trying to understand that.”

“I love you!”  Sherlock blurts into the still, quiet of the room, and then looks quite horrified, surprised, almost, that it’s come out of his mouth.  He sucks in a sharp breath, and clamps his mouth shut, his eyes filling instantly.

John is thrown. This is not what he expected.  The sentiment, given everything he’d read tonight, is not a shock, so much as this—this awkwardness, as though Sherlock is terrified, not only of his own feelings, but of everything, all at once—small and coming apart at the seams. 

John should say something, do something, but he just sits, slack-jawed, and stares at the tears filling Sherlock’s eyes, spilling over, and the way his whole body has started to tremble.

_[A brush of his hand against mine used to set my skin alight for hours, and I had to flee, because it was too much (TOO MUCH), and I know it’s not him, it’s me.  I’m too much, or not enough, and I want him, want him (WANT HIM), but I can’t bear even his breath too close to my neck.]_

John struggles to his feet, limps a step or two, until he’s close enough to touch.

_[People don’t want that.  It’s all or nothing.  I’m not enough.  I crack, and break so easily.  I’m not fit for that.  It burns, it pricks, it races like fire over my skin, through my nerves, flooding my brain with stimulus, reducing me to a trembling fool, and they leave, they always leave.  No one wants that.  No one will ever want that.]_

“Can I touch you?”

Sherlock’s eyes are sheer panic, something John can’t understand, and he thinks that maybe he shouldn’t touch.  He needs an answer, first, but Sherlock seems incapable of giving one.  His breath hitches, once, twice.  Sherlock is crying now—properly crying, and his cheeks are stained bright red, his brow furrowed, lips trembling.

“Okay, okay.  I won’t.  Let’s—can we sit for awhile.  Just here…”  John nods toward the couch.  “Maybe we just sit for awhile.  Come on.  We’ll sit.”

And they do.  Sherlock still in his coat, shaking like it’s zero degrees.  He curls into himself.  John is worried, but he’s seen this before, and all he knows is what _not_ to do.  He doesn’t talk.  He doesn’t touch.  He just waits.

They wait a long time.  He can tell Sherlock is fighting this, whatever it is, trying to master himself, and John is torn between crippling guilt that he’s the one who’s brought this on, and his usual urge to help.  But there’s nothing to be done, and there’s nothing more horrible than that sense of helplessness.  John aches to do something—anything.

“Can I talk?  You don’t have to say anything, but I have something to say.  That okay?”  John looks over a Sherlock, legs tucked against his chest, forehead pressed against his knees.  He nods without looking up.

“I know you wrote those a long time ago.  A lot has happened since then.  But, I—I don’t want you staying alive just for me.”  Sherlock’s breath hitches, and he goes very still.  “I want you to exist because you wake up every day wanting to face another day, because it holds promise, and happiness, and you’re excited about it.  I feel like I’ve not been doing my job, I’ve not been doing it for a very long time, and I’d like to start again—if you’ll let me—if you’d like.

“That didn’t surprise me, before, what you said.  Not after I read what I read tonight, and to be honest, even if I’d not read it, I think—I think I’ve known for awhile.  There was something in your eyes, in the way you said my name the night I got shot.  I’ve known for awhile, and I’m here, and I’m staying, because I want to, and because—I do too, you know.  I do love you.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up, a look of utter disbelief troubling red-rimmed eyes, disbelief that slowly fades into something that skirts the edges of hope when he takes in the look John is giving him. 

“Maybe we start again,” John smiles softly.  “Maybe we get it right this time.”

Sherlock’s face is open, unguarded, a invitation.

“Could I—could I kiss you…?  You can say ‘no’,” John races to add.  “You can always say ‘no’, but…”

Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter, and he nibbles at his bottom lip a little.  He nods.

“Okay…”  John slides a little closer on the sofa, and he can almost hear Sherlock’s heart beating.  His eyes are wide, hyper alert, taking in every tiny micro-expression, every movement, watching John’s hands as he reaches down and takes both of Sherlock’s in his own, rubs his thumbs over the backs of them, squeezes gently.

“You’re sure?”

Sherlock nods.

“Okay.  Because you seem—maybe—not okay.”

Sherlock shakes his head.  Opens his mouth, pauses with it open for a moment, and then screws his eyes shut tight, huffing a little in frustration.  When he looks up again, John thinks he sees a yes in his eyes, but he needs to be sure.  This first time, he needs so much to be sure. 

“I just—I need to know for sure, okay.  Please.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap back to his.  “Please…”  he whispers.

It’s all John needs.  He leans forward, and Sherlock moves too, comes to meet him in the middle, and when their lips press together John can feel Sherlock’s trembling, can taste salt, and peppermint on Sherlock’s skin.  It’s chaste.  It’s careful.  But then Sherlock relaxes a little, melts deeper into the kiss, and everything shifts…

Their mouths are moving together, perfect sips and tastes, and it’s Sherlock’s tongue that dares to tangle with his, first—a surprise, and somehow not—and everything fades to just this, just this single, perfect moment, every sense honed in on the taste of Sherlock’s tears on his tongue, and the sensation of Sherlock’s fingers balled tightly in the back of his jumper, and then Sherlock’s face buried in his neck, and the clinging, and scrambling, until they are stretched out on the too narrow sofa, and Sherlock’s limbs are tangled with his, and he is clinging like he’s drowning, and he’s calming, calming, until finally, finally, everything is still, and safe, and warm.

They’re home.


End file.
